


Breathe

by esteoflorien



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteoflorien/pseuds/esteoflorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In truth, Cora had always thought of Rosamund’s townhouse as a kind of a refuge. A gilded refuge which, admittedly, she did not decorate, but a safe haven nevertheless. Series 5 compliant; no major spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

It was natural for her to direct the driver to Eaton Square instead of Grantham House. When she came alone to London she preferred to stay with her sister -  _never ‘in-law,’_  Rosamund had said after the wedding,  _what a ghastly phrase_  - and told everyone that it was because there was no sense in opening a whole house just because she’d decided to spend a week in the capital.

In truth, Cora had always thought of Rosamund’s townhouse as a kind of a refuge. A gilded refuge which, admittedly, she did not decorate, but a safe haven nevertheless. She had retreated here after the horror of Mary’s birth as soon as it had been reasonably acceptable to do so, and though she was not especially proud of having left her firstborn in the care of a retinue of servants, she had needed the escape. She’d needed to catch her breath after the utter struggle that had been childbirth, and Downton Abbey had always had housed terribly oppressive air within its cathedral ceilings. The first time she’d set foot inside, in fact, she’d made note of it: she could not breathe once its heavy door had closed.

( _I thought these old houses were meant to be dank and draughty_ , she’d told her lady’s maid, Anne-Marie, later that very first evening, but Anne-Marie, the lady’s maid she’d mournfully watched carefully board the ship home to New York, said nothing in reply. She’d often thought that the house had rendered her mute, and she should have known that was the beginning of the end.)

She had no idea how she’d managed these thirty-four years of marriage, in fact, waking every morning to air so thick she could hardly manage to take a breath. She’d long since concluded that there must be something singular about these old houses, these chateaux de famille where generations had been born, lived, and breathed their last, something entirely unreplicable on the other side of the ocean.

( _Far side of the water, far side of sorrow_ , she often said, though she couldn’t remember where it was from and wasn't even sure what it meant, now. Perhaps it was Shakespeare. Perhaps it wasn’t from anything at all. Perhaps it had been her own, once upon a time, and its provenance now forgotten, she couldn’t entertain the idea that she’d thought it up first.)

She breathed easier in London, which looked very much like an antique New York, and smelled more or less the same. There was familiarity in the sound of her shoes tapping on the hard pavement; comfort in the way awkward conversation drowned in the bustle of the capital. At Downton Abbey one could hear virtually everything, even a whisper halfway across the room; there were no secrets in that sort of house. They collected and hung suspended in the air, filling the rooms until they were fit to burst.

( _Of course that’s all in your head, my dearest,_  Rosamund had told her.  _What did you expect, the seaside air of Newport?_  But nevertheless she’d opened her doors.)

Air was a funny thing, but now it was a kind of code.  _I need to breathe_ , she would say, in a telegram, telephone call, or, in what was not her proudest moment, via a housemaid dispatched to London for the express purpose of fetching her sister-in-law so she would not be alone for the journey. She had given the girl pocket money for sweets for her trouble, and she’d contented herself with the girl’s breathless thanks upon her return.  _Breathless_ , Cora had thought.  _How odd._

This was not her first time playing mistress of the house in Rosamund’s absence, but it was odd to be without her. She wondered if this was what it felt like in New York at this moment. Was it this leisurely quietude, a house rendered practically mute by a minimum of servants? Downton Abbey was quiet, to be sure, but its moments of silence were punctuated by the terrible loudness of the rhythm of its aristocratic days. There were luncheons and teas and formal dinners and some days it seemed as if the only time she would have to herself was breakfast.

Perhaps she was simply meant to live alone.

The phone rang, startling her. It rang and rang until she remembered that here, in this house, there was no Mr. Carson to answer it. Rosamund answered her own telephone, and so it seemed that now, while it was shaking its head off and making the most obtrusive noise, it was her duty to relieve it.

“Good afternoon, Lady Grantham speaking,” she said, concerned that she’d waited too long.

“Oh there you are,” came Rosamund’s voice, crackling and far away. “Now hold on, what are  _you_  doing there?”

“I needed to breathe,” she said, simply. There were no formalities between them; no pretense.

“How long are you planning to stay?”

Cora sighed. Damn Rosamund and her practical questions. She was flighty and lovely, but for someone who took off at the first wisp of an idea, she was terribly fond of knowing what those around her were doing.

“I’m not certain,” she said, after a long moment. “There’s a gallery showing I’d like to attend. An exhibition, here in the city.”

“That’s nice,” Rosamund said, almost wistfully. What Cora had always appreciated about Rosamund was her utterly genuine nature - distinct from her mother’s frankness - for it meant that if Rosamund said something, by and large she meant it. And this, Cora could tell, she meant.

“It’s a pity you aren’t home to come along,” she said, after a moment.

“Well, I am in Italy, my dearest,” Rosamund. “There’s art every which way you look.” The line crackled. “I should go. Stay a week, I’ll join you and we’ll go home together.”

( _Home_ , Cora thought, marveling at the way Downton Abbey was still  _home_  to Rosamund even after all these years. If she closed her eyes and thought of home she saw the sun setting over the Sound. Perhaps she should go to New York. Perhaps Rosamund would accompany her.)

They said their goodbyes and Cora carefully settled the earpiece into its cradle. The clock on the mantle chimed its melody; it was gone four o’clock. At Downton Abbey they would be sitting to tea, Robert, Mary, Edith and the rest. In two hours’ time, were she with them, she would be climbing the staircase to dress for dinner. Baxter would come and undress her; she would bathe, and her breath would catch in her throat as she stepped on the tile, as it always did; she would choose her jewels and arrange her gloves and she would wait for her husband; he would escort her to dinner. She grew dizzy just thinking of it all, of everyone gathered around the dining table, her daughters, her mother-in-law, her guests.

She crossed the room and sat heavily in the chair by the window, brushing aside the lace curtain to crack open the shutter. London had modernized, of course; gone was the quaint trace of history that she had once found so charming. The streets were loud and frequently filled with smoky exhaust from the automobiles. And yet she found there to be clarity in this urban fog.

Cora closed her eyes, and breathed.

 


End file.
